


Strawberry Fields

by lumosy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky is a little shit, Deaf Clint Barton, Depressed Steve Rogers, Depression, Disabled Character, Hurt Steve Rogers, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Natasha Romanov Feels, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Steve rogers has anxiety, bucky is flirty, farm au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-18 13:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9387737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosy/pseuds/lumosy
Summary: After a gruesome tragedy takes the lives of his family, and nearly his own, Steve Rogers moves into the spare bedroom of a farmhouse in upstate New York, intending on keeping to himself and using the time to clear his head.Until he meets the snarky, insufferable (gorgeous) farmhand who may have a few secrets of his own hidden behind that cocky smile.ORthe farm AU nobody asked for, featuring damaged drama queen Steve, and the brash, flirty Bucky we all know and love.





	1. Chapter 1

Steve takes a deep breath, hand shaking as it raises to the door, but still managing a solid knock. There’s a muffled shout from inside before the door is yanked open by a stockily-built and very out of breath blonde man.

“Are you Steve?” he shouts, voice sounding slightly off, but the smile stretching his face is genuine. “You must be Steve. You look like a Steve, ya know?”

The man turns around and yells something into the house, and Steve catches a glimpse of a flesh-colored hearing aid over his left ear. Something tight in his chest begins to loosen, not only because the man seems so easy-going, but because having a disability usually makes people more tolerant of other people having them. And Steve, despite finally hitting a growth spurt at age 22 and working out regularly, has a plethora of conditions left over from his childhood ailments. It’s manageable, definitely, but can still be difficult for other people to become accustomed to.

The man continues talking as they walk into the living room, flooded with light from the floor-length windows on every wall, yellow paintings and green plants and a pure white couch.

It makes Steve a little sick, how happy it all looks. He wishes they would close the blinds. But Steve is always polite, so he comments vaguely about the pretty room and leaves it at that.

“I know, I know, it’s a little much.” The man shrugs but smiles even wider, “It’s just Natasha, she doesn’t like the dark. So we went pretty excessively in the other direction. I’m Clint, by the way.” The man–Clint–says, “And you’re Steve?” he tilts his head as if this is a question rather than a statement.

“I’m Steve.” He nods back, and it feels rather anti-climatic, like he should have a depressing new name for his depressing new life. But he doesn’t, he’s just Steve. 

Clint looks at him for a moment longer before smiling again and leading them into the kitchen, gesturing for him to sit at a wooden table that looks suspiciously hand-made. “Nat should be down any second, you thirsty?” He opens the fridge and rummages around for a minute before humph-ing triumphantly and holding up a bottle of beer. Steve’s hands shake a little nervously before he gets it under control and shakes his head.

“I’m okay, I don’t drink much. Thanks, though.” Clint looks disappointed but pours both into glasses anyways, which Steve assumes will be for Natasha. He sits down at the table and looks content to sip on his beer, which Steve thanks the heavens for because he doesn’t know if he could manage much small talk at this point.

A few minutes pass before a beautiful red-haired woman strides into the kitchen wearing denim shorts and honest-to-god cowboy boots. Clint practically glows as he jumps up to kiss her on the cheek and pour a cup of coffee, leaving the beer sitting on the counter, which strikes Steve as odd but not important at the moment, as his anxiety is threatening to spill out of him in unwanted ways. He shoves his hands beneath his thighs to stop the shaking, which really only manages to make his legs shake along with them, but at least it’s under the table where it can’t be seen.

“I’m Natasha, we spoke on the phone. You must be Steve.” She says cordially, offering a hand across the table, making Steve promptly scramble to pull his out and wipe desperately on his pants and hope it’s not too embarrassingly sweaty when he shakes hers. His flustering makes her lips twitch slightly, but she says nothing and folds her hands professionally over a folder of papers on the table in front of her.

“Yes, I-I’m, me.” Steve scrambles, “That’s me. I’m Steve.” The easy-going energy he felt with Clint has vanished, leaving him a shivering mess as he does his best to not ruin this arrangement before it even starts.

“The background check came through clean, so if you don’t have any other questions, you can move in as soon as you’d like.” Natasha pushes the papers towards him, official-looking documents that lay out the rules of their agreement. Steve nods wordlessly and signs the documents with shaky cursive before handing them back.

“I have everything with me.” he states, gesturing at the duffle bag he carried in with him. If Natasha is surprised by this, it doesn’t show. She nods and starts to reply, but is interrupted by the kitchen door banging open with surprising force, revealing an absolutely mud-covered man with –one arm?– and a puppy in the other one trying his hardest to escape.

“Lucy got into the chicken coop again, but don’t worry folks, there were no casualties this time!” He plops the dog into the sink and takes a grateful drink of the beer Clint hands to him, starting to remove his destroyed clothes, only noticing their guest when his jacket and shirt are on the ground and his impressive abs are fully on display.

“I’m Steve.” he stutters.

“Steve,” he smiles and wipes his face, revealing a chiseled set of cheekbones and dark lashes framing eyes so blue that Steve has to gulp in air a little desperately. “I’m Bucky. Nice to meet you.” His voice drops a few octaves, Steve is sure of it, as he steps closer and the abs are suddenly right in front of his face.

“Uh yeah, y-you too?”

“James, quit scaring off our new roommate. He’s a nice boy.” Natasha smirks, but Bucky’s smile only gets wider, his teeth glinting dangerously and really, this isn’t what Steve expected, and he needs some air before his lungs give out, and if he has to use his inhaler in front of this model farmer he’s going to kill himself, or something. He jerks to his feet and trips a little but manages to get around Bucky and reach the door without touching him at all. 

“I’m gonna, uh, go check out the backyard.” His excuse sounds weak even to his own ears, but it’s enough to get him out of the house and into fresh air where he can actually think.

That is, until the screen door bangs open a few minutes later and Bucky swaggers up to him, now clean and dressed and still devastatingly handsome. “I thought I could show you around. Ever been on a farm before?”

Steve is so fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve just blinks at him stupidly for a moment, but Bucky’s smile doesn’t falter. If anything, the man looks more and more amused as the blush heats further into his cheeks.

“Uh, no, never.” Steve stammers.

“Well then, you’re in for a treat.” Bucky points to their right. “This is all mine, all the way to the reservoir.” Steve follows his gaze to the wide fields. His anxiety lessens a bit then, watching the trees sway in the breeze. He closes his eyes and listens to the leaves rustling, and after a few calm seconds, he realizes that this is the first time he can remember not hearing car engines, horns, the buzz of distant conversations. He can hear nothing but the leaves, the wind, and the breath of the man beside him, and tears well up in his eyes before he can stop them. 

“It’s beautiful.” he manages stiffly, turning to hide the wetness on his cheeks. Bucky looks out at the fields with something Steve thinks is pride, which makes the tears come even faster. He remembers having pride, once, for his paintings, for his job, for the cozy apartment he bought for his Ma when he got that big promotion. He remembers the look in her eye when he handed her the keys, looking up at him just like Bucky looks at his fields. He hasn’t felt anything like it since the accident, and he doubts he’ll ever feel it again. 

Everything he ever prided, cherished, loved, is gone.

His Ma always used to talk about living out here, away from the noise. He always planned on buying her a big house where she could relax all day, not have to worry about anything. He always told himself, next year. Next year I'll surprise her.

But next year turned into five and he still hadn’t, and she died in a city she hated.

“Where you from, then, city boy?”

“Brooklyn.” His voice wavers unwittingly.

“Why’d you leave?” Steve freezes. He turns back to the house and ignores the alarmed noise from Bucky, ignores the tears running down his cheeks, and slams the door behind him.

Inside, Natasha looks vaguely unsurprised. “Would you like to see your room?” Steve nods furiously and wipes his eyes. Clint stays silent and sips on his beer at the table. Natasha stands gracefully, gesturing at the stairs as Steve grabs his single bag and follows her, shoulders slumping pathetically.

The room they enter is sparse but very pretty, with big windows covering two of the walls. Steve immediately notices a corner that would be perfect for his easel. If he still painted, that is.

But he doesn’t. He left that behind in Brooklyn with everything else, and he moved far enough away that it couldn’t follow.

“It’s nice. Thank you, Natasha.” He says simply. The old Steve would have chatted about the view, complimented the bed sheets, asked her about her plans for the evening. But now he can manage barely more than common niceties.

Natasha seems to understand, or at least is not offended by his shyness. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. We can talk more tomorrow. Goodnight, Steve.” He nods to her and she closes the door.

He unzips his bag and dumps his meager belongings onto the bed. A toothbrush, toothpaste, a hairbrush. Two pairs of pants, three shirts, a thick jacket.

Steve remembers his old apartment, the big closet, bigger than this bedroom, filled to the brim with expensive clothes. He can’t remember why he thought he ever needed all of it. He used to complain about not having a new suit for an event, or when his tie sat crooked. He looks down, now, at his threadbare jeans and soft t-shirt.

A year ago he wouldn’t have been caught dead in these clothes. A year ago he wouldn’t have been caught dead out in the farmland, either. A year ago he would have been at some office party, coked off his ass with Tony, bragging about their latest bust and bathing in their money.

Captain America, they called him.

He started out as a nothing in army basic, barely making it through training. He nearly got kicked out once for sassing an officer but managed to be overheard by Tony Stark, head of the entire East Coast, and amused him enough to be promoted to Captain within a month. Soon after he was recruited onto Stark’s team, a mysterious group of soldiers who operated undercover. Their work was extremely coveted and extremely classified.

Steve wishes that he never accepted the offer.

The Captain America bit was Tony’s fault. Steve’s first mission involved a fake model persona to aid in catching a known terrorist who worked out of a photography studio. Steve’s role was an all-American, beefy idiot, one that nobody would suspect. Steve apparently played the role so convincingly well that his code-name became Captain America permanently.

_“Attention everyone, Mr. America has arrived! Show us your abs!” Tony raises his glass and the group cheers._

_“Fuck off, Stark. And that’s Captain to you.” Steve glares, “These abs just caught an FBI most-wanted criminal!”_

_“I’m sorry, my bad, Captain America!” The whooping increases in volume and even Steve can’t resist cracking a smile and taking a mock bow._

Steve hates it. He hates the memories, so frequent, and so cripplingly strong that it brings him to his knees.

Captain America is dead. He’s just Steve now.

Just Steve.

 

 


End file.
